


Hold Your Breath And Count To Ten

by captainhollyshortofthelep



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhollyshortofthelep/pseuds/captainhollyshortofthelep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach Fall fix-it fic. Lestrade's point of view (ish). John and Lestrade dealing with the death...and resurrection of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Your Breath And Count To Ten

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was having a bad day. Actually more accurately, Greg Lestrade was having a bad couple of weeks, possibly even months. Working for a place like Scotland Yard often did that to you. 

Since the higher ups had found out that Sherlock had been helping with cases for years and everyone now thought that Sherlock was a psychopath, Sherlock had been taken in, John had punched Lestrade's boss and also been arrested, they both escaped...and now Lestrade really didn't know what to think.

He'd known Sherlock for six years. SIX years and never in that time had he ever doubted him. Why start now? Lestrade had seen Sherlock in action. He may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but that's what made Sherlock, Sherlock. He was beyond clever – a proper genius – but he had weaknesses. He was overconfident and dismissive of others' feelings. That's what made him human. 

But Lestrade still kept by what he had told John all those months ago when the doctor first moved into Baker Street:

Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and maybe, if we're lucky. He may even be a good one. 

Lestrade still believed in Sherlock, that one day, hopefully in the near future, Sherlock would prove himself. 

On the day following Sherlock and John's arrest and subsequent escape Lestrade sat gloomily in his office going through dull credit forgery cases when Sally Donovan came rushing in, a manic grin stretched across her face. Lestrade's heart did a frightening jump at the sight. It wasn't a good jump. 

Sally didn't stop for greetings – cutting straight to the case. “Detective Inspector, he's dead.” 

Lestrade jolted slightly, an overwhelming chill suddenly settling over him. He shook his head in an attempt to dismiss it, but shivered instead. “Who's dead?”

Sally smirked, already on her way out the door. “Sherlock Holmes of course. Committed suicide by jumping off the roof of St Bart's Hospital. Good riddance I say.” And with that she left.

Lestrade let out a strangled choke – bordering dangerously on a sob. “God no. He wouldn't...” He dived for his phone, vision swimming in his haste and panic – and called the first number he could think of. 

It rang for over twenty seconds before someone finally picked up.  
The voice was tired and groggy. If Lestrade didn't know any better he would have assumed it was the voice of someone who had just woken up. But Lestrade did know better. It was the voice of a defeated man. “'lo?”

Lestrade closed his eyes to counteract a sudden wave of dizziness. “John...just tell me. Is it true?”

There was a muffled sob that was the only confirmation that Lestrade needed. He rubbed one hand down his face, the other turning white from holding the phone so tightly. “John, I am so sorry.”

He heard John clear his throat and sniff ever so slightly. “It's fine...well it's not. But it's not your fault. He was convinced he was a fraud so j-jumped.” John audibly swallowed before he continued, his voice cracking with every word. “Nothing will convince me that Moriarty wasn't involved. Sherlock wouldn't have ended his – ended his life unless he had no other option. He would deny this, but he did care – the fact that he called me at the end proves that.” 

Lestrade attempted to swallow the sob climbing up his throat – and failed rather miserably. “It's definitely him?”

John paused before answering, his voice sounded much more pained than before. His crying was now audible – Lestrade nearly gave up trying to hide his. “Molly identified him. I trust her judgement. I couldn't – couldn't see -not like that. Not now. Not ever.” 

Lestrade slowly pulled himself back together, taking a shaky breath. “Who's with you now, John? Where are you?”

“I'm sitting outside the flat in the corridor. Mycroft's got cameras everywhere. I'm sure he's watching.” 

Lestrade hesitated before he spoke next. “I don't believe he was a fraud, John. But who ever made him jump off that roof wants us to believe that he was. So tell everyone what Sherlock wanted them to know and I will find a way to clear his name as fast as possible.”

“Aright.”

“Please look after yourself, John.” 

“I'll do my best.” 

“That's all I ask.”

There were a few seconds of companionable silence then John hung up. Lestrade let out the breath he was holding, putting his head in his hands. 

One thing Sherlock, he thought. Come back to life. John is falling apart without out you – we're all falling apart without you. Please come back. 

 

The next day Lestrade was up on the roof with Anderson, collecting Moriarty's body (Or Richard Brooke's as Anderson insisted), staying as far away from the edge where Sherlock jumped off as he could. He was used to crime scenes, but there was certainly a difference between investigating a random person's murder and investigating one of your closest friend's. 

“Good riddance, I say,” Anderson remarked, standing far too close to the edge of the roof to Lestrade's liking. “I always knew he was fake. It's nice for it to be proven.”

Lestrade growled under his breath. “Nothing's certain, Anderson. For all we know, Sherlock could have been framed.”

Anderson scoffed. “Yeah, likely story. I could smell the crazy on him from the beginning. His unnatural obsession with murder was just...unnatural.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “He would have been impressed with your way of words.”

“He was always so insulting. So quick. I bet he was quick with murders as well. Fast with a gun so not to be caught. Well he's dead now, we don't have to deal with that pri-”

 

“You punched Anderson?”

Lestrade grinned, not feeling particularly guilty. “I simply knocked him out for a few minutes. He'll have a slight concussion and a nasty bruise on his left eye. But I'm sure he'll make a full recovery.” 

John snorted, before obvious remembering the events of the previous day. “Why did you do it?”

Lestrade sighed. Though he was glad to have cheered John up even if it was only for a few seconds. “He was insulting Sherlock. I don't like it when people insult my friends.” 

Silence. Then: “Thank you.” 

“You're welcome. I'll punch him more often if it'll help. He's a jerk. Ignore him. One thing though...I found Sherlock's phone on the roof.”

John swallowed. “His phone?”

“It was discarded to the side, obviously after your conversation. However, I was having a look today and found that Sherlock had done an audio recording of the minutes leading up to his death. I thought that you might want to listen to it with me.”

John paused again before answering. “When are you free?”

“When are you free? Actually, where are you living? I know you're not at the flat. I called Mrs Hudson earlier.” 

“I'm staying at Harry's.” 

“Your sister's?” Lestrade asked, surprised. “I thought you two didn't get along.”

“The circumstance called for it. I needed a break, something new to think about.”

“But you'll still come and listen?”

“I'll be there tomorrow. Thank you, Greg.”

“You're welcome, John.” 

 

When John Watson turned up at Scotland Yard the following day it took Lestrade a few moments to recognise him. Not only was John dressed how one might see him first thing in the morning (the jumper he was wearing was clearly part of his extensive knitted collection but his pants were too tight, too long, so obviously tailored to fit someone else – probably Sherlock), he was relying heavily on his cane once more and his eyes were red, blood shot with large black bags hanging over his cheeks. 

Lestrade once again had to close his eyes to collect himself before addressing John directly. “Doctor Watson.”

“Detective Inspector.” 

They both paused. 

...Then Lestrade threw himself into John's arms, effectively knocking the cane from John's hand. 

John immediately froze in response before letting his arms drop in defeat, laying his head on Lestrade's shoulder. 

When Lestrade pulled away, both men had to discreetly wipe their eyes, though neither could deny that they had both needed it. 

John held himself a little stronger as he leant down to collect his cane and followed Lestrade into his office. 

“Just to make it very clear, John. I am here for you. Any time you need me to stop the recording, tell me and I will stop it and you can leave or we can wait a little longer until you can listen to it again.” 

John sighed. “Thank you, Greg. I think I'll be fine. Go ahead an play it.”

 

Two months later found Lestrade and John working together on cases. John was now living with Lestrade in his guest room as he still couldn't brave 221B and they went on murder cases together. If there was anyone (that wasn't Mycroft Holmes) who could replicate Sherlock's method of deduction even a little, it was John. 

“What do you see, John?”

John used the cane to lower himself to the ground and leant over the body, resting his ear against the victim's chest. “Well he's definitely dead.” 

Lestrade snorted. “Great deduction. Sherlock would be inspired.” 

There was a moment of silence where Lestrade opened his mouth to apologise and John froze at the sound of Sherlock's name. What shocked Lestrade is that John started laughing, a slight giggle at first before he chuckled loudly, apparently catching himself off guard as he hiccuped slightly in an attempt to stop, his eyes dancing in amusement. He pushed himself to his feet with his cane, careful not to accidentally stab the body with it. 

“He would be so very annoyed with me,” John said finally, before doing his best Sherlock impression, dry drawl and all. “Once again, John, you see but do not observe. The victim isn't just dead, he was clearly murdered by a single shot into his temple from a rifle fired from the third window from the right on the second floor of the building ahead of us. The gunman didn't mean to shoot him, however. The shot was meant to be a warning – for the victim to give up whatever was in his possession. But as the sniper accidentally fired a shot that killed, he had to run, leaving the 'treasure' behind.” 

John lifted a small, wrapped package from the victim's coat pocket before continuing his impression. “You'll find that this was the wanted item. A wrapped children's toy, part of an extensive code used by a very small and very secret division of the Secret Service. Someone phone my brother. He will need to know of this new development.”

Lestrade stared at John in complete and utter shock, as did many other officers around him. 

John went rigid, his eyes widening in surprise. “Did I just...?”

Lestrade cleared his throat, pulling his cellphone from his pocket and dialing Mycroft's number. “I don't know, let's check with the British Government.”

Ten minutes later and Mycroft was there inspecting the body and the package, 'hmmmn'ing and 'ahh'ing an awful lot...probably just to be annoying. 

“It seems like Doctor Watson was correct in his deductions,” the now only Holmes brother said finally, as he came back around the body to stand next to John and Lestrade. “But what I would like to know is where this sudden accuracy came from.” 

“I-I don't know,” said John finally. “I surprised myself. I had no idea that Sherlock had had that much of an impact on me that I suddenly got his way of thinking.” 

Mycroft tilted his head to one side. “How did you make the analysis?”

“I pretended to be Sherlock.” 

“Well pretend again and explain to me how you reached your conclusions. Sherlock doesn't just make haphazard statements. If you ask him, he can back everyone up thoroughly and accurately – with all possibilities considered and more likely options chosen.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John. “Do you think you could do that for me?”

John nodded hastily. “I can certainly try.” He walked away slightly from the two men and the victim's body, placing himself somewhere where he had a good view of the body as well as the opposite building.

“Well the victim would have to be standing about here, right? He would have been talking into his phone as if you look his last call was made only seconds before the murder. He was clearly shot – the bullet imbedded in his temple makes that beyond obvious. We know where the shot had to have been fired as the angle in which the bullet has gone in and the direction in which he fell only really leaves one option: the third window from the right. It was an accident as the sniper obviously thought that shooting from that high and from that far, the bullet would simple sail over the victim's head. Rookie's mistake. Clearly a rookie by the placement of the bullet in the temple and the choice of sniping point. There were much better places that could have been chosen instead such as the adjacent rooftop and even the window directly behind us. My deduction about the toy code was a guess – an educated one however, as there have been three murders now linked to this division of the secret service and as each of them are all carrying children's toys, I am guessing that it has to be a code.” 

“Brilliant,” Lestrade said, smiling widely at John who was looking more and more taken aback by every statement he made. 

Mycroft nodded slightly. “Yes, well done. Thank you, Doctor Watson, that will be all.” 

“I guess all that time spent with him really did pay off,” Lestrade commented lightly as he and John walked (well John limped...) to the main road to catch a cab.

John smiled at him sadly. “In more ways than one. He was my best friend after all. Of course something was going to stick.” 

“Remember, John. Anytime that you need to talk, I'm here. I know you're seeing your therapist but there are some things that just can't be said to someone who is paid to listen to you.” 

“Thank you, Greg. I'll be sure to if I need it.”

 

Another month or so passed rather similarly. John and Lestrade solved cases with John's new-found detective skills and John continued struggled through dealing with Sherlock's death. Though he was definitely recovering, slowly but surely. 

Things were better since he had someone on his side, someone on Sherlock's side. They had all the information they needed to clear Sherlock's name, but they also knew that they needed to get rid of Moriarty's men to ensure their own safety. They didn't want Sherlock's actions to be in vain. So they searched for the men, and waited for results. But still nothing. It seemed that the three assassins had simply vanished after Moriarty and Sherlock's deaths. 

“What do you think about this one, John?”

John shook himself from his trance, glancing first at Lestrade who had spoken and then back at the body they were investigating. 

It was a nasty crime scene. There was blood everywhere and the fact that the victim was human was barely noticeable.

“Well there is clearly a head wound involved,” John started, limping closer to the body to get a better look. “The sheer amount of blood proves that. The murderer hit him in the back of the head with something hard, probably the missing brick from the garden wall and then proceeded to run over the body with the lawn mower.” 

Lestrade nodded, writing down the notes as John said them, giving the lawn mower a nervous look. It was obvious that it was involved in the murder. There was blood and bits of flesh caught in the rotors. 

“The murderer must have come up behind him with the bri-”

“Wrong,” said a voice coming up from behind John. “How many times do I need to tell you, John? You are seeing but not observing. Clearly this is the body of someone who died of natural causes weeks ago and was mangled after death.” 

The voice moved as the person leant over the body. “The brick is simply missing, and has been for years – the dust and leaves caught in the hole it left is testament to that. Obviously the blood has been stored over time, check the DNA and you'll see that it is of three different people rather than the one. The bits of flesh you are seeing are not the person's there, rather also from a collection – to be more precise, St Bart's collection. I would say it was an inside job, but I've never actually worked for St Bart's, have I? Try to think before making a deduction, John. You do not want to accidentally think someone dead when they are most definitely alive.”

The person was still standing behind John, who had frozen at the sound of the very, very familiar voice – one that had haunted him for over three months. Lestrade, who had a full view of the speaker, looked like he was seeing a ghost, and as John turned to look he realised that Lestrade probably was...John was seeing one too. 

“How nice to see you again, Detective Inspector,” The Ghost Of Sherlock Holmes said smugly, clearly enjoying Lestrade's reaction. “I apologise for interrupting your little murder case, but considering it wasn't actually murder, just a few stolen items used to get your attention, I think we can move on, can't we?”

Silence. 

Complete silence. 

Complete silence broken very suddenly by a cracking sound. followed by The Ghost Of Sherlock Holmes falling to the ground in a not-particularly-ghost-like manner and clutching his nose in agony. 

Doctor John Watson shook out his right hand, flexing it with his other to loosen out the joints that had cracked when he had punched The-Clearly-Not-Dead-Sherlock in the nose. 

“There,” John finally said. “I think we're even now, don't you?”

Sherlock groaned as he pulled himself to his feet in order to gain even a little height advantage. “What was that for?”

And suddenly the situation was no longer light and humourous (except obviously for Sherlock's nose...he wasn't finding that particularly funny). John glared at his best friend, looking for all the world that he would punch him again. 

“You died, Sherlock! I watched you fall from the top of a building that I had been trained at – trained to save lives and... I-I couldn't...I couldn't save yours.” 

Which opened the flood gates. 

Sherlock was now no longer worried about being hit by John, rather being crushed to death in his arms. John had quite a tight grip. 

“I'm sorry.” 

“No you're not.” 

“Yes I am. I watched you every day, Mycroft let me check his security cameras. I almost panicked when I didn't see you at the flat. But then I realised that it must have been affecting you too. So you'd be staying at a friend's. At first I thought you'd stay with your sister. And I was right, for two days at least. I think moving in with Lestrade was a great idea. Though I am hoping that now I am alive that you would move back in with me. I need my blogger.”

John's tears just fell harder onto Sherlock's shoulder, his arms tightening even more. “Please tell me that you're free, that you can come back to life.” 

“I'm free,” Sherlock murmured into John's hair. “Moriarty's men are now all dead and the press will only need a short clip or two from my audio recording to convince them of my innocence.” 

Lestrade felt like he was intruding on a private moment. Sherlock was half talking to him when he answered John's questions, but the grip that they held each other with was strong – so strong that Lestrade knew that it wouldn't be broken again. 

As they pulled away from each other, Sherlock noticed John's cane had fallen to the ground. “I see that the limp came back.”

John glanced at it, shrugging. “Just a little. Please don't ever scare me like that again.”

“I won't.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “Then I will do my best.” 

Lestrade grinned at them as John put his arm through Sherlock's and dragged him to the road to catch a cab. 

“I sincerely hope that you haven't thrown out my experiments, John. Just because I wasn't there doesn't mean that they're not still going.” 

“Wouldn't have dreamed of it.”


End file.
